


This is Totally Normal (It Isn't Weird At All)

by SevereStorms, wreckingthefinite



Category: Actor RPF, Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, Chubby Kink, Chubby Subby Seb, D/s, Feeding Kink, Food Kink, Food Porn, M/M, Praise Kink, Sexual Content, Teasing, Weight Gain, Weight Issues, chub kink, fat admiration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 00:43:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7245382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SevereStorms/pseuds/SevereStorms, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckingthefinite/pseuds/wreckingthefinite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another shamelessly kinky RPF inspired by Sebastian Stan's love affair with pizza (which is real) and Chris Evans' love affair with Sebastian (which is <i>not</i> real...as far as we know).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Thanks,” Sebastian says, as the fan in front of him hands yet another chocolate chip cookie dough Quest bar across the table. Quest bars. He wishes he’d never mentioned them. “Do you, uh, want me to sign this?” he asks, hopefully.

She freezes, a deer-in-headlights expression on her face. “Oh – um, no, I brought that for you? As a present?” 

“Oh, that’s so sweet of you, thanks, I…love these.” He hopes she can’t tell how forced that particular line is getting. He looks up and meets her eyes. He always makes an effort to engage meaningfully with each and every person who’s bought a ticket to come see him – he can hardly believe people do it, but they do, and they deserve a little acknowledgment, it’s not too much to ask - but he’s been signing autographs for more than an hour, and it’s getting hard to concentrate. 

She smiles back and extends a DVD and a still photo from _The Winter Soldier._ He takes them and scrawls his name across each with a Sharpie. 

“How many is that?” Chris whispers, next to him. 

“Autographs? God, I have no idea. A million. I can’t feel my fingers.” He shakes his hand, trying to loosen the cramped muscles. 

“No, the bars,” Chris says. “How many bars is that?” 

Sebastian glances down at the cardboard box next to his right sneaker. “Jesus. Must be at least thirty of those things in there.” 

“Do you even like those?” 

“I used to.” 

“Next time someone asks you about food, you should mention something delicious. Mention pizza, for god’s sake, how much better would this be if we had pizza?” 

“Only about ten thousand times better,” Sebastian says, leveling a thousand-watt smile on the unsuspecting teenager in front of him. “Great costume,” he says. “I love your arm, nice work. How much lube did it take to get into that?” 

The kid giggles as Sebastian signs the photo on the table in front of him. “The thing is, I only ate those stupid bars because I wasn’t allowed to have dessert,” he explains to Chris. “So maybe I need to start talking up actual cookies. You know what would put this Con over the top? A dozen homemade chocolate chip cookies. Two dozen. Shit, I’m starving, when do we get a break?” 

“Half an hour,” Chris says, glancing at the clock on the wall behind the teeming crowd. “But we only get fifteen minutes, and then we’ve got photo ops.” Then, focusing on the fans in front of him again, “No way, man, I’m not signing anything for someone in an Iron Man getup, get outta here,” he jokes to a fan in a perfectly-executed Iron Man costume. It’s really good, even has a glowing arc reactor in the chest. 

Sebastian’s seen all kinds of fantastic cosplayers at the Con, but he always likes the Winter Soldiers best, and it’s gratifying to note that it’s one of the most popular costumes. He’s seen a lot of Scarlet Witches, too, but as much as he likes Elizabeth and her character, he almost feels like it’s a bit of a cop-out. You can wear a leather jacket and a skirt anywhere, people might not even guess that you’re dressed up - but building your own replica metal arm? _That’s_ commitment. 

He glances up at the next fan, who approaches, Quest bar extended in his direction. “Thanks,” he says, accepting it, resigned. “That’s really great, yeah, these things are…um, great.” 

“So where’s the best pizza around here?” Chris asks the next fan. “You local? Where do the locals go?” 

The fan, surprised out of her nervousness, thinks about that. “Rosa’s is good. Gusto? It’s just a pizza counter, no frills, but that’s really good, too. And there’s NYPD, they’re close, just a few blocks from here.” 

“Thanks, hon. Y’know, Sebastian here _loves_ pizza,” he adds, raising his voice a little. “He was just saying how the only thing that could possibly make him happier right now is if we had some pizza. Right, Sebby?” 

“Sure,” Sebastian says absently. 

“What do you like on it?” someone asks, yelling to be heard over the hum of the crowd. 

Sebastian glances up, but it’s impossible to tell who was asking. He thinks about it, lets his head tilt back a little. He really is hungry, no joke, and thinking about pizza isn’t helping. “Oh man,” he says. “Cheese, just, like smothered in cheese. I don’t even care what else you want to put on there, just make sure there’s a ton of cheese, and I’m good.” 

“Hear that everyone? Someone go get Seb a pizza,” Chris says, grinning over at Sebastian. “And with any luck, we’ll end up with thirty pizzas back here to go with all the damn bars,” he adds under his breath, between autographs. “Oh hey, look, finally, here’s a Captain America! Nice helmet, dude.” 

* 

They don’t get thirty pizzas. They get ten. Sebastian flips open one of the boxes and pulls a slice free of the pie. It’s pepperoni, extra cheese, and it smells so good his mouth actually waters a little when he inhales.

“You shouldn’t eat those,” one of the security guards says. “It’s not wrapped, not a good idea. What if you get roofied?” 

Sebastian almost drops the slice of pizza he’s holding. “Can they _do_ that?” he asks, incredulous. “Can you roofie pizza?” 

“Nah,” Chris says. “Go on, eat your pizza, don’t listen to these guys,” he says, shooting a dark look at the guard. 

“You guys got pizza?” Anthony asks, poking his head through the black curtains that separate his booth from theirs. “Man, we’re making out like bandits. Look, someone got me carrot cake.” He holds out an elegant blue cake box with a cellophane viewing panel, a white-frosted cake with an artful fondant carrot on top nestled inside. It looks delicious. 

After pizza, dessert is Sebastian’s biggest weakness. He knows he probably shouldn’t; his trainer would kill him. Pizza’s one thing, he can get away with that once in a while, but cake is just hell on his waistline. Still, it’s not like one little piece would hurt. 

“You got _cake?_ ” Sebastian asks. “I’ll trade you some pizza for a piece of cake.” 

“Get your own cake,” Anthony says. “I’ve got one cake, you’ve got – what, _ten_ pizzas? You’re not going to eat all that yourself, I’d be doing you a favor.” 

“You’re gonna eat the whole cake yourself?” Sebastian asks, around a huge mouthful of pizza. “And yeah, I’m eating as much of this as I can before the photo ops, I’m fucking starving.” And god, the pizza is _good,_ piping hot and covered in cheese, the pepperoni bringing the perfect amount of spicy, smoky grease to the party. 

“Tell you what,” Anthony says, smirking. “You finish that whole pie? I’ll give you a piece of cake.” 

Sebastian considers that. He can eat the whole pizza, no problem, and he’s sure he’s burning a ton of calories running around from event to event. Plus, he’s supposed to be getting ready for the Infinity Wars shoot; he’ll be in the gym for months after this, a little indulgence now isn’t going to hurt. “They can’t roofie cake, can they?” 

“What kind of psychopath would roofie a damn cake?” Anthony asks, outraged. “Cake is sacred. Cake is all about trust.” He glances over his shoulder. “I got fans to please. You get busy,” he says, pointing at Sebastian, then at the pizza. “Chris, you better make sure he doesn’t cheat.” 

Chris folds his arms authoritatively across his superheroic chest and looks sternly at Sebastian. “He won’t cheat,” he says. “I’ve got my eye on him.” 

“Why would I cheat?” Sebastian asks, folding another slice in half and taking a huge bite. 

*

Sebastian doesn’t cheat; he just casually works his way through a whole large pizza, folding up each slice and polishing it off in a few big bites, all while shooting the shit with Chris and anyone else who’s within earshot. He waves to fans, drifts into Anthony’s booth for a few minutes, then wanders off to get a Coke, causing a huge stir in the lobby. The two security guards, eyes rolling in exasperation, have to go haul him out of the little whorl of fans who surround him, taking selfies and hugging him unabashedly.

“You’re a mess,” Chris says, shaking his head. “You can’t just walk around like that, you have to be careful.” 

“Nah, the fans are great, and besides, what’s the point of being here if I don’t get to hang out with them a little?” 

Chris finds it rather touching, the sincerity with which Sebastian says this. He likes the fans, too, he really does, but he doesn’t feel quite as easy around them as Sebastian seems to. It’s not the anxiety – that’s been blown completely out of proportion, you’d think he spent all his free time cowering in a bunker in fetal position, that way the internet spreads rumors about it – but more that he gets exhausted, being around people too much, always having to be _on_. Most actors are extroverts, drinking in energy from a crowd, but he’s wired differently, happiest one-on-one, needing time to himself between events to recharge. 

Another big difference between him and Sebastian: he can’t really eat in the middle of a big event like this. Maybe that part _is_ the anxiety, he just feels so nervy, his stomach knotted up tight. But Sebastian has just eaten a whole pizza, drained a can of Coke in fifteen seconds flat, and seems perfectly fine. 

“Let’s go do these photos,” Sebastian says, cheerfully. “You ready?” 

Chris has been so preoccupied with watching Sebastian, he’d almost forgotten that they’re expected for the photo op in a few minutes. Somehow, witnessing Sebastian calmly eating a whole pizza has chilled him out completely. He suddenly wants to see Sebastian eat a little more, before they jump back into the fray. 

“What about that piece of cake?” he asks, clearing his throat, trying to make the question sound offhand. “I thought that was part of the deal, here.” 

“Oh, man,” Sebastian says, his hand going unconsciously to his belly and rubbing back and forth. “I don’t know if I can do that right now. That pizza’s really starting to kick in.” 

Chris risks looking him up and down, just once, then looks away. He looks good. Not as impressively huge as he had when they’d started filming Civil War last year, but on his way, definitely. The jeans he’s wearing do amazing things to his ass and thighs, but better still, under the jacket and the loose-fitting t-shirt, but Chris is pretty sure Sebastian’s stomach is ever-so-slightly rounded with all the food he’d just put into it. The sight of that slight outward curve beneath the thin fabric makes his breath catch. 

“Sure you can,” Chris says. Then, daringly, he adds, “Do it.” 

To his amazement, Sebastian shrugs and shoulders his way through the curtains again, returning a few minutes later with a huge slice of carrot cake wrapped in a folded napkin. He holds it up for Chris’s inspection, breaks off a chunk, and pops it in his mouth, closing his eyes with a soft hum of pleasure that sends a jolt right down Chris’s spine. 

“Umm,” Sebastian says. “God, that’s fucking delicious.” He whips the curtain aside again and points at the cake box. “Where’d this come from?” 

“It came from your mom. Some of us are busy, Sebastian Stan,” Anthony calls back irritably, and fans shriek delightedly while a barrage of iPhone flashes pop off. Sebastian waves his piece of cake, grinning, and lets the curtain drop back into place. 

One of the photographers hurries over, looking harried. “Anytime you two are ready,” he says. “The line’s already getting kind of insane.” 

“Sure,” Sebastian says. “We’re ready now, right, Chris?” He shoves the remainder of the cake into his mouth and licks cream cheese frosting off the side of his hand. 

“Yeah,” Chris says, eyes locked on Sebastian’s mouth, on the little dab of frosting at the corner of his lips. “We’re, um, we’re ready.” 

*

Sebastian doesn’t mind the photo ops. It gets tiring, sure, saying the same thing over and over again, hugging stranger after stranger, but it’s not _hard_ , and the fans love it. Their faces light up, like his willingness to say hello and pose for a photo is something special. It’s still a little baffling.

He sort of wishes he hadn’t inhaled an entire pizza, a Coke, and that damned carrot cake right before he has to do it, though. The fans keep wanting really physical stuff—one girl requests, with a completely straight face, to “climb him like a tree,” and the moment he agrees she launches herself at him, wrapping her legs around his waist in a full body hug. He doesn’t mind—really, he doesn’t—but it’s all he can do not to groan at the pressure against his stomach, which is, frankly, uncomfortably full. 

“Ooof,” he says under his breath a moment later, running a hand over his belly and stifling a hiccup behind his hand.

“You okay there?” Chris asks, giving him a funny look over the head of the next kid being shuffled off the photo mat after her picture. 

“Just full, Jesus,” Sebastian says. “Wish I could sit down for these things.”

“They’d all be in your lap,” Chris says, laughing, as a girl in a scandalously tight Winter Soldier getup—one that includes short shorts and fishnets—steps up for her photo.

“Oh my god, is that an option?” she asks, eyes wide. “Because yes, please, that’s exactly what I want.”

Sebastian shoots Chris a look and then gives her an enormous smile. “How ‘bout a hug, okay?” 

*

When the photo ops are finally done—running over schedule, as usual—they duck back behind the curtain, and Sebastian plops down into the first available chair. 

“Regretting eating the whole pizza?” Chris asks, eyebrow cocked up. His expression is a little hard to read. 

“Nah, I’m good now,” Sebastian says truthfully, leaning back in his chair and mindlessly running a hand over his stomach, which is still full but not painful. He doesn’t regret it a bit. It had tasted amazing, and if they hadn’t given the other nine pies to the security guards—who may or may not have eaten them, since they are apparently all living in fear of roofie by pizza—he thinks he might have been willing to grab another slice or two. It would be cold by now, but that wouldn’t be a problem. Cold pizza is still really good pizza. 

“Anthony left his carrot cake,” Chris says, gesturing to the pretty little bakery box on the table. 

Sebastian eyeballs the box for a second and grins. “Anthony made a mistake.” He leans over and flips the lid up. There’s still only the one slice missing from it; other than that it’s still pristine and pretty delicious looking. 

“You aren’t serious.”

“Of course I’m serious. He left his cake unattended. Practically asking for this.” The plastic knife that he’d used to slice his first piece is still sitting in the cake box, and he cuts an even larger piece. He doesn’t have any napkins this time, but fuck it—it’s only him and Chris back here, anyway. They’re done for the day, just waiting for the crowd to thin a little before they’re escorted out. 

“How can you possibly still be hungry?” 

Sebastian shrugs, taking a huge bite of cake and enjoying the spicy sweetness of it against the rich cream cheese frosting. Yup, still really fucking good. “I’m not.”

“You’re not hungry.” Chris’s voice is a little funny, and it seems like what he’s saying should be a question, but it comes out flat. 

“I ate a whole pizza earlier. Of course I’m not _hungry_ ,” he says, shrugging again and stuffing another piece in his mouth. “But it’s cake. It’s good. And it’s Mackie’s, so it’s funny, too.”

Chris still looks a little weird, so Sebastian shoves the box toward him. Maybe he’s just jealous. “You want some?”

“Ah—no, I’m good, man.” 

“You’re missing out, it’s fucking awesome. Best thing to happen all day.”

“Uh huh.” 

The slice of cake goes down remarkably quickly, soft and moist and easy to swallow in big, slightly messy bites. When it’s gone, Sebastian peers into the cake box again. If he has another slice, he’ll have eaten exactly half of Anthony’s cake.

There’s something weirdly appealing about that. It’s symmetrical. It’s balanced. Sebastian likes balance. 

He grabs up the little knife and starts cutting. 

“You cannot possibly be able to eat that, man.” 

“Watch me.” 

Sebastian is taking a bite when Anthony appears from behind the curtain and ducks inside the enclosure. 

“You are eating my damned cake,” he says immediately. He glances down at the cake box. “You ate _half_ my cake! Oh, that is cold, Seb. That is some cold shit.”

Sebastian grins and takes another bite. “Have some,” he says, pointing at the box. “Is’ really good.”

“Apparently, since you went to town on that thing.” Anthony looks over at Chris. “He ate all that by himself?”

Chris nods and crosses his arms over his chest, looking weirdly twitchy. “And the whole pizza.”

Anthony shakes his head and leans over, thumping his hand over Sebastian’s belly. “Gonna be working that off for the next month, buddy.”

Sebastian feels his cheeks heat a little, at the words that echo what he’s sort of been reminding himself all afternoon—and at the feeling of Anthony’s hand across his belly, which is, now that his attention is being brought to it, rounded and taut. 

“I gotta bulk anyway,” he says, not exactly defensive. 

“Sure you do, Chubby Dumpling.” 

Chris snickers. Sebastian shoves the last of the cake in his mouth. “Laugh it up—I’m supposed to look kinda thick. The fans obviously love it, Christ, I’ve got enough Quest bars and shit to last a lifetime. They want me to eat.”

“Keep telling yourself that, buddy,” Anthony says, shaking his head and laughing. 

*

In the weeks following the convention, Chris finds himself thinking about Sebastian more than is, strictly speaking, normal. 

And the things he’s thinking about Sebastian—they’re not particularly normal, either. 

There’s the way he ate that whole pizza, like it was nothing. He hadn’t even looked like it was work. He’d just casually shoved the entire thing down his throat, one greasy slice at a time, and then chugged a coke. It had to have hurt. Especially when he’d thrown in the carrot cake for good measure, _because Chris had told him to_.

If Chris is honest with himself, he’s a little bit fixated on thoughts like these. And he tries, he really tries, to get over it. He hangs out with his old friends who don’t give two shits that he’s Captain America. He goes home to see his mom and his sisters. He does all the shit he does when he’s in Boston and doesn’t want to think much about being Chris Evans, Movie Star. And it’s nice, and it makes him happy, but it doesn’t stop him from thinking about Sebastian in ways that are neither professional nor platonic. 

Besides watching Sebastian eat, one of his favorite things to think about—while pretending he’s doing no such thing—is how Sebastian had justified all that food. _The fans obviously love it. They want me to eat._ It’s stupid, the way that keeps ringing in his ears, but it does. 

He doesn’t plan to do it. It’s late, and he’s lying in bed dicking around on his phone, pretty much aimlessly, when he opens the browser. He doesn’t even really think about it, just lets his fingers tap out “sebastian stan chubby dumping” into the search bar. 

There is absolutely no justifiable reason to do this. 

None. 

The very first link that comes up reads, rather obnoxiously, “Sebastian Stan Is a Chubby Dumpling in China and Chris Evans Loves It.” 

Chris almost drops his fucking phone. 

The picture at the top of the article shows him with Sebastian, in the middle of an interview. They’re both laughing, looking at each other instead of the camera or the interviewer, and it feels strange, somehow, seeing it. Weirdly intimate, which is a disconcerting way to feel about a photo taken of yourself. 

The article is the typical kind of press tour drivel that comes out, ultimately meaningless, usually boring, but Chris reads every word, even the part that suggests that Sebastian looked chubby in Civil War because of the camera angles, which is patently ridiculous. He looked chubby in Civil War because he _was_ chubby, Christ, he’d shown up on set and the wardrobe people had practically shoe-horned him into that damned henley, and god, it had been distracting. 

Chris scrolls back up to the top and looks at the picture again. Seb is thinner in it than he is now. He’d slimmed down after they finished shooting Civil War, and he’d been disappointingly skinny when they’d started doing press. He’d put on a few pounds during the tour, though, and a few more after that; in Philly he’d looked really good. Distractingly good. 

Did he eat the way he did last weekend all the time? Was that something he did regularly, stuffing himself like that, like it was nothing? He had to do it at least occasionally, for him to take down a large pizza without even blinking. 

It had been impressive.

He swipes back to the search results and looks over the images: stills of Sebastian from Civil War, mostly, thick and appropriately cranky-looking. 

For fuck’s sake. This is not only bizarre, it’s probably creepy. It is. This is creepy behavior. 

He locks the screen and sets his phone down, turns off the light. There. That’s better. He’s got it out of his system, whatever _it_ is. He’s done. 

When he slides his hand under the elastic of his boxers, he tells himself it’s not going to be about Sebastian. It’s just about going to sleep; it’s a maintenance orgasm. 

And, for a minute, it is. Just his hand wrapped around his cock, grip light and almost lazy, like he could take it or leave it. No clear image in mind, just the languid pleasure of his hand on his dick. 

Except that it doesn’t stay that way. The images drift behind his closed eyelids, sharp and bright, chiseled into his memory with the aching clarity of sexual attraction. Sebastian, talking around a mouthful of pepperoni, exclaiming about how good it was, cheeks bulging, looking so damned happy. Sebastian, stringing a piece of cheese from the slice in his hand to his mouth, laughing and licking his fingers when he finally managed to get it all shoved down. Sebastian, the way his throat had moved when he’d drunk that Coke, the way he’d laid a hand on the side of his stomach after, like maybe it was uncomfortable, being stuffed so full and then dumping carbonation and sugar on top of it. 

His grip isn’t loose now. It’s tight and rough, almost painful, and he should stop and grab lube but that would mean he’d have to stop, and that’s the last thing he wants. 

Oh, _Jesus_ , Sebastian standing in front of the photo backdrop and hiccupping against the back of his hand, obviously too full, the way he’d groaned and held his belly, just for a second, something no one else would have noticed, but something that Chris could see because he’d watched Sebastian eat that entire pizza, he _knew_ how full he was, and _god_ , it was like this dirty secret, something that should be innocuous but it wasn’t, it was so filthy fucking hot—and then they’d finally been done and he’d eaten _more_ , holding a slice of cake in his hand and casually inhaling it, talking with his mouth full, telling Chris he wasn’t even hungry, he just wanted it, just because it was good, just because it was there, because he could, jesus it was so indulgent and so _greedy_ , fuck, fuck, fuck. 

He comes so hard he raises up off the mattress, back arching, come splattering in an arc over his flat, heavily muscled abs that probably don’t look anything like Sebastian Stan’s. 

*

The next morning, he types out five different texts to Sebastian and doesn’t send any of them.


	2. Chapter 2

“I thought you said you only wanted to do _one_ of these,” Chris’s agent says, the next day. “You saw what it was like in Philly, how crazy it was. You can’t just drop in, that’s ridiculous.”

“Why not?” Chris asks. “Look, just see what you can do, okay? I had a good time in Philly, and…” he trails off, casting about for a plausible justification. “Uh, my therapist says it’s good for me. You know. To put myself out there more, to do something unscripted and spontaneous, doing more one-on-one stuff with the fans.” 

“Didn’t you have some kind of nervous breakdown in Philly?” 

“What? No, what the…? Who said I had a nervous breakdown?” 

“Twitter, Tumblr, the entire internet? Something about some dude trying to kiss you, and you having a panic attack? I sent you a fruit basket as soon as I heard, did you get it?” 

“What?” Chris crosses the living room and cracks the front door. There, on the front porch, is an enormous fruit basket, wrapped in colorful cellophane and topped with a bright orange bow. He sighs as he opens the door and carries it inside. 

“I just got it, yeah, but look, there was no panic attack, I’m fine. Jesus, you’re my agent, you didn’t even call me to confirm?” Was it that believable? Was he that much of a mess in public? It’s enough to give him an actual panic attack, if he thinks about it too hard. 

“I’ll have someone release a statement on your Twitter,” his agent says, ignoring his question. 

“I can do it, don’t bother,” Chris says. “Jesus.” He peels the cellophane away from the basket and starts picking through it. There are pears, apples, and right in the center, a little pyramid of black plums. He sighs. Fucking plums. He thinks of Sebastian, eating plums throughout the entire panel back in Philadelphia. He’d just stuffed them into his mouth, one after the other, like he hadn’t eaten in a week. 

“I’ll see if I can book you into Chicago,” his agent says. “But look, that’s going to be tricky, timing-wise. How about Richmond, or New Orleans?” 

“Um, no,” Chris says, flipping his laptop open and scanning the convention’s website. Sebastian wouldn’t be at either of the two cities. “That, uh, conflicts with shooting for Infinity War, doesn’t it?” 

In the end, his agent agrees to get him booked for the con in Chicago, and Chris hangs up the phone with a sigh of relief. 

He stares at the dates for the Chicago convention, which is only a little more than a month away. His hand hovers over the computer’s track pad, and then, glancing away from the screen as if it somehow absolves him from what he’s about to do, he clicks on the totally-not-that-weird browser window full of pictures of Sebastian. 

The fans are obviously running with the pizza thing, and there are about a hundred different thumbnails of Sebastian delightedly opening pizza boxes in Pittsburgh and Atlanta, Minneapolis and Las Vegas. Then there are the photos of him actually eating pizza. And then there are the gifs, and the videos. 

There’s one video of Sebastian emerging from behind a curtain and making an announcement about his plans to go home and eat pizza. Chris is reasonably sure that the statement had been made in response to a fan’s proffered Nutri-Grain bar, but seriously, who offers up not only an overview of their eating habits, but details of the next thing they’re planning to eat, and their feelings about it? In the same situation, anyone else would’ve said, “No thanks, I’m good.” Sebastian Stan, freak of nature, explains that he eats quite frequently, and that when he gets home, he plans to eat pizza and feel good about himself. Which is probably exactly what he’d done, damn him. 

There’s another video of Sebastian shoving an entire slice of pizza into his mouth at once, to the delight of the fans awaiting autographs in Cleveland. 

He’s watched that one a lot, too. Cleveland was the most recent event Sebastian had attended, and okay, he can be almost chimeric around a camera, but it’s pretty indisputable that he’s put on weight since Philadelphia. It’s visible in his face, which is no surprise, but also in the way his jacket tugs a little across his round shoulders, in the way the leather pulls tight across his biceps. Then – right at 0:46, which Chris assures himself is a perfectly normal thing to know - he stands up to check out a fan-made version of the Winter Soldier’s Hydra cryochamber, and Chris can see the slightly rounded shape of his belly bowing out the fabric of his t-shirt. 

He might’ve paused the video right there every so often. He might’ve gone back and forth between the video from Philadelphia and this one a handful of times, comparing Seb’s slimmer silhouette from a month ago, to the more rounded one in Cleveland. It might jump start a thrumming pulse in his throat and make his nerves vibrate like a strummed guitar. It might have sent him straight for the bottle of lube in his nightstand on several occasions. 

“Totally normal,” he tells himself, mockingly. “Totally, totally normal.” 

*

Sebastian’s phone buzzes, and he claps it to his ear. “Yeah?”

“Please tell me you’re not eating all these pizzas yourself.” 

“Don? Hey, how’s it going?” 

“How it’s going depends entirely on you telling me you’re not eating thirty pizzas a day, Sebastian. Can you do that for me? Can you soothe my goddamn nerves, please? Because I’m in front of my computer right now looking at my Google alerts and there are about a hundred pictures of you eating pizza. Eating _different_ pizzas, Sebastian. Many different pizzas.” 

“Yeah, well,” Sebastian says, sitting down at the breakfast bar in the little kitchenette of his hotel suite and shoving a hand through his hair. “You know, it’s just a fan thing. Chris told some fans in Philly to bring me some pizza, and now…I don’t know, I think it’s great. It’s just fun.” 

“Yeah, that’s super cute, great explanation, but not actually an answer to my question. What is happening to these pizzas?” 

“I’m definitely not eating them all by myself,” Sebastian says quickly. And it’s true; he isn’t. He gives pizzas to the hotel and convention staff, shares them with the other guests and the fans. But he’s still been eating _a lot_ of pizza. It’s been glorious. 

“No. More. Pizza. Okay? Sebastian? You’re done with this tour in a month and then we’ve only got three weeks in the gym before you start shooting. Don’t fuck this up.” 

“I can’t _not_ eat pizza in Chicago. You know my friend Will, his family basically invented the Chicago-style pizza. There’s no way I’m not going over to their place at some point.” 

A gusty sigh, remarkably expressive, communicates his trainer’s exasperation and disappointment. 

“Did I ever tell you it was the first food I tried when my mom and I came to New York? The very first American food I ever ate?” 

“That’s beautiful. You should write an article for the Atlantic or something. _Pizza Tastes Like Freedom: An Immigrant’s Story_ by Sebastian Stan. Or maybe you can start a second career as a pizza taster after Marvel fires you.” 

“Hey, you were worried before Civil War, too, and nobody cared. It’s gonna be fine, you’ll see.” 

“Yes, I will see, as soon as you get back to New York, so keep that in mind, Sebastian. How hard I kick your ass is directly proportional to the amount of pizza weight you’ve put on since the last time I saw you.” 

As soon as he disconnects, Sebastian runs a hand down the front of his body, pausing at the unfamiliar swell in the middle. He’s reasonably sure this will qualify him for some degree of ass-kicking, but honestly, it’s not _that_ bad. He stands up and goes to the full-length mirror on the wall by the door. He straightens up, sucking in. Barely noticeable. Sure, he looks a little thicker, and when he stops sucking in, his belly is noticeably rounder, but he did eat an indeterminate amount of pizza today, and he’s sure that if he just cuts back a little, it’ll be fine. 

The thing is, it’s almost impossible to cut back at _all._ He’s in Tulsa, not a place he associates with pizza – in fact, he can’t think of any foods he associates with Tulsa, now that he’s thinking about it – but pizzas show up, in droves. Hot, flat boxes redolent of hot grease and Italian spices pile up on the autograph table, and he tries to ignore them, but the session runs overtime, as usual, and he gets hungry. 

He has a little Tupperware container of hummus and peppers back in his room, but his stomach practically feels like it’s trying to gnaw on his spine, and there’s pizza sitting _right in front of him._ His willpower just can’t withstand an onslaught of this caliber. 

He flips open the top box. It’s from a place called Andolini’s, and it’s surprisingly good – not like New York-good, but a hell of a lot better than he’d expected to get in Tulsa. 

“This is good,” he says with his mouth full, and pokes through the rest of the pile. There’s a pie from Umberto’s, another from Hideaway. Savastano’s, Hey Mambo, D’Oro’s, Gaetano’s. 

“Try the one from Gaetano’s, I brought that one,” a fan yells over the crowd, and then everyone’s yelling, shoving pizza at him. 

He lifts his phone and films a few minutes of pizza mayhem to send to his trainer. Don can’t argue with a hundred fans who obviously _want_ him to eat a bunch of pizza. And really, he thinks, as he opens the second box and lifts out a warm, gooey slice, it’s only fair to try one of each. 

* 

_How’s Tulsa?_

Sebastian grabs his phone from the bedside table and rolls gingerly onto his back again, staring at the screen. It’s from Chris, which is a little odd – they text from time to time, but they’re usually both so busy they just wait to catch up the next time they see each other again. 

Sebastian groans and tugs on the waistband of his jeans, trying to get comfortable. He’d definitely overdone it. He glances down at his belly, which is sticking up, round and full, even though he’s flat on his back. “Ugh,” he says. “Jesus.” His trainer is going to strangle him. _My trainer is going to strangle me,_ he taps into the phone. It’s probably good that Chris texted. He’ll understand. 

_How come?_

_You remember that thing you started in Philly with the pizza? You created a monster._ And then, because it suddenly strikes him as a rather funny addition to that text, he takes a picture of his overstuffed gut and texts that to Chris, too. 

There’s a long pause between texts, and Sebastian suddenly wonders if that was weird. Why had he done that? _Was that weird?_ he texts. It probably was weird, but somehow, the idea of Chris seeing just how full he is, how much he’d overdone it today, is appealing. Kind of hot, too. Not that he has a thing for Chris – it’s just all that food, making him feel almost drugged. 

Yeah, that’s probably it. 

Besides, even if he did have a thing for Chris (which he does NOT, that would be ridiculous, nope) that photo probably just put the kibosh on any reciprocal attraction. Not that there’s any attraction in the first place. It’s really not about Chris, not at all. It’s just that he always gets a little turned on when he’s so full, so heavy and sated. 

_Is that YOU?_ pops up on his screen. _What did you do?_

_It turns out Tulsa has a whole bunch of pizza places. 11 of them are really good._ He adds eleven little pizza slice emojis to the end of the text, just for fun. 

_So how much pizza did you eat, exactly?_

For some reason, it pleases Sebastian that Chris is interested in this information. His dick gives a little twitch at the thought of Chris looking at his full belly and wanting to know more. Chris, with his fat-free ab ridges and his acres of chest muscles. Chris, who’d looked so adorable with his beard and his flannel, staring at him while he ate half a cake in Philly. _I don’t even know, man. A lot._

_You ate a whole pizza by yourself in Philly. What’s a lot?_

Sebastian rubs his belly thoughtfully, trying to remember. God, it feels good, being this full. His belly is warm and soft in his hand, a satisfyingly rounded curve. He slides his hand lower, pops the button of his jeans, and breathes in deeply for the first time in an hour, watching his tummy expand upward as he does. _Like maybe 16 or 17 slices? A lot._ He lets his hand slide even lower. 

_Nah, bet you could eat more._

Does Chris _want_ him to eat more? What a thought. What an agonizingly, frustratingly, burningly hot thought. Sebastian keeps one hand down his pants and types, one-thumbed and precarious, _Maybe I could._ His breathing is audible now, rasping in his throat. 

_You should try to top that tomorrow._

Sebastian doesn’t text back; he can’t, not right now. He drops his phone and shoves his too-tight jeans down around his hips, gets himself off so fast and so hard it leaves him breathless and panting, flopped out boneless on the mattress, spent. 

So maybe it _is_ about Chris, a little.

*

Chris hadn’t given much thought to the fact that the con he was adding at the last minute was in Chicago. He’d picked it solely because it was the only one that he could fit into his schedule that also included Sebastian. Which is a fact he tries not to consider overmuch.

Because he hadn’t actually thought much about Chicago, he hadn’t realized that the wave of fan-generated pizzas this time around would be deep dish, Chicago-style monstrosities that looked like they weighed ten pounds apiece and were, some of them, actually delivered in reinforced boxes. Now that he’s here, though, he thinks that he couldn’t have picked a better city – or maybe a worse one, depending on how he looks at it – to crash the party.

They’re at the autograph table when the pizzas start to arrive, and of course Sebastian lights up like a Christmas tree. Chris eyes him as he opens a box and beams, throwing his head back and laughing at the sheer size of it, full cheeks stretched into a smile, dimples on full display. “You guys are trying to kill me,” he says happily, tossing down his Sharpie and using two hands to dig into the box and pull out a three inch thick slice of deep dish pepperoni—“with extra cheese,” the girl who apparently brought it adds pointedly, because Sebastian had mentioned that in Philly and stock has probably risen accordingly in mozzarella. 

“Killing me, too,” Chris mumbles under his breath.

The two women standing in the front of his line – slightly older and a little more circumspect than the majority of the crowd – exchange a look and then both flash matching grins at him. “Us too, buddy,” one says. 

“He’s a menace,” her friend adds, shoving a picture of – inexplicably, bizarrely – a _dumpster_ across the table. “Don’t ask, please. Just sign it and forget it happened, okay?”

*

They autograph for two hours straight, and Chris thinks his hand might fall off. The only saving grace is that Sebastian plows his way through at least half a dozen slices of pizza in that two hours, and these aren’t crispy thin crust affairs that he can fold up and shove into his face in a few (agonizingly distracting) bites. No, these are enormous, greasy, cheesy slices of pie that Sebastian has to hold with two hands, completely abandoning what he’s doing in order to eat. 

The fans love it, and even when Sebastian picks his Sharpie back up and leaves a greasy smudge behind on a glossy photo of himself when he signs the next autograph, no one seems to mind. 

Chris is in hell. He’s willingly signed up for a tour of hell. 

Hell is watching Sebastian casually stuff himself in front of hundreds of people – people who are filming it and will then upload it to the internet to share it with thousands more people. 

Hell is glancing over at the corner of his eye and seeing Sebastian tug at the waistband of his jeans, inching them down lower, _under_ the unmistakable curve of his little round belly. 

Hell is accidentally making eye contact with Sebastian after he’s just shoved an enormous bite into his mouth and watching as he says around all that food, “Not gonna beat the Tulsa record here. Deep dish is tough.”

*

They have a blessed twenty-minute window between autographs and photo ops, and Chris foolishly imagines that maybe it’ll be just the two of them, secluded behind the curtain, for a few minutes. 

It doesn’t happen. Anthony walks in almost directly behind them, whistling low between his teeth when he spots Sebastian carrying no less than three pizza boxes. 

He shakes his head, grinning at Sebastian. “Those people pay hundreds to see you, and then you let ‘em buy you lunch, too. Shame on you.” 

Sebastian rolls his eyes and sets the boxes down before slumping into a chair, his hand drifting toward his little belly. “I can’t stop them from doing it, and it’s cute.” 

“They’d probably stop it if you didn’t eat all of it like a starving wolf cub every time they do it,” Anthony says, laughing. He walks past Sebastian on his way to sit down and taps him on the belly as he goes by. “Telling you, man. Chubby Dumpling.” 

Chris shifts in his chair and reminds himself to breathe. This is fine. This is all fine. Nothing weird is going on here. Least of all in his own head. Or his own pants, Jesus fucking Christ. He crosses his legs. 

Sebastian sets down the slice of pizza in his hand and looks down at his stomach. Chris studiously does not notice the way his jawline blurs into a double chin with the movement. “Is it that bad?” Sebastian turns to Chris. “You can’t tell, right?” 

“Tell what?” Chris says, his voice croaky like a frog. “That you just ate like ten pounds of pizza?” 

Sebastian runs his hand over his stomach, smoothing his t-shirt down. “I’m just kinda full, is all. It’ll look okay in the pictures, yeah?”

God help him, Chris gets up and walks over to Sebastian. “Stand up,” he says, swallowing hard. 

Sebastian does as he’s told, his eyes wide and trusting, locked on Chris’s face. 

Chris takes his shoulder and turns him ninety degrees, until he can see Sebastian’s profile. His black t-shirt clings a little to the curve of his tummy, and _weeping, creeping Jesus_ , it does show. At least from the side. “Can you suck it in?” he asks, reaching out and patting Sebastian just once in the middle of his little gut. 

Sebastian takes a breath and then exhales noisily. “ _Nope_ , no way. Hurts.” 

“That’s because you ate too much,” Chris says, his voice even lower this time. It’s almost – almost – a whisper. 

Anthony’s voice suddenly fills the room, and Chris almost jumps at the sound of it. “Boy, you two are having a moment right now.” He shakes his head, looking amused. “I’m gonna leave you to it, too.” Before they can protest – and god, Chris wants to protest, this is not a _moment_ , there is _nothing weird_ going on here, absolutely _nothing_ \-- Anthony flips open the curtain and steps out. He says something over his shoulder as he goes, but it’s lost in the eruption of squeals from the crowd. 

Chris takes a step back, trying to pull himself together. “Ah – for the photos. You can – if you’re worried about the pictures, you can wear this over your shirt,” he says, and scrounges around until he digs up an extra shirt of his own, a plaid button up that he’d dragged along in case it was cold in the auditorium. 

“I can wear your shirt,” Sebastian says blankly, looking down at the proffered article of clothing. 

“I mean” – Chris coughs, balling up the shirt and tossing it at Sebastian’s head, hoping to break whatever tension has settled between them – “to cover up, you know, your stomach.” 

Sebastian catches the shirt on instinct and freezes for a moment before he shrugs. “Cool.” 

As he starts to button it, Chris realizes almost immediately that it’s not going to work. He can’t believe he didn’t realize that when he made the offer. Sebastian’s every bit as wide as he is through the shoulders, and everywhere else? His chest, his waist? He’s bigger. Even before the two-month-long festival of pizza, he’d been bigger. 

Sebastian gets the bottom couple of buttons done up, and the fabric puckers a little around each one. 

“Ah – you probably can just leave it open,” Chris says. “Just as, you know, camouflage.” 

Sebastian nods, his cheeks a little pink as he unbuttons the few he’d managed to do and shrugs his shoulders, adjusting the tails of the shirt until it hangs right. “This look okay?”

“Yeah, great,” Chris says, fiddling with a water bottle and trying not to explode out of his own skin. “You could eat more, if you wanted,” he adds, like his mouth is completely independent of his brain and hell-bent on his own demise. 

He doesn’t know what to expect, when he looks up to gauge Sebastian’s reaction, but all he does is give Chris an easy grin, like everything is totally fine. Normal, even. Just bros being bros. “Awesome. Problem solved.” 

Chris thinks he might die when Sebastian goes over and picks up his abandoned slice of pizza and shoves it happily into his face. 

*

The room service menu is extensive, and Sebastian keeps flipping through it. 

There are trainer-approved meals in the mini fridge, and Don had practically begged him to eat them when he’d spoken to him the day before, threatening all sorts of dire consequences, hours upon hours of gym time, liquid diets, if he didn’t shape up. 

The thing is, he’s already eaten a shit-ton of pizza today, and he’s going to do it again tomorrow, because it would be rude not to, when people order them for him and so clearly want him to enjoy them. And so yeah, he could eat whatever chicken and vegetable combo is carefully packed up for him and sitting in the fridge. He _could_. But since he’s eaten pizza today, and he’s eating pizza tomorrow, it’s almost like the chicken and vegetables tonight wouldn’t count, bookended between pizzas. 

Futile. That’s what it would be. Silly. 

Fuck it. He picks up the phone and rattles off his order: "A ½ pound burger, medium, with bacon and cheese.” It comes with French fries, but … “And an order of fettuccine Alfredo,” he tacks on at the end. “With, uh, two Cokes.” 

The two drinks totally makes it look like the food is for two people, and Sebastian doesn’t want to think too deeply about why he’d done that. Not because the whole food thing has gotten out of hand and he’s a little embarrassed about it. That’s definitely not why. He’s just really thirsty, is why. 

“Dessert?” the voice on the other end of the line asks. 

Dessert. “Two slices of the chocolate cake,” he blurts out, practically slamming the receiver down. 

*

When he answers the knock on the door, it’s not room service. It’s Chris. 

“Uh—hey, man,” Sebastian says, stumbling over his words. He feels his cheeks heat just a little, for reasons he doesn’t care to examine. 

“Hey,” Chris says, his eyes skating quickly down and back up, taking in Sebastian’s pajama pants and worn t-shirt, his bare feet. “Uh—you not doing anything tonight, I guess?” 

“No, no, I was…tired,” Sebastian says weakly, stepping back into the room and gesturing for Chris to follow. “C’mon in. What’s up?” He flops down on the sofa, tapping his fingers along the seam of the cushion and trying to look like he’s not flummoxed by Chris’s sudden presence in his room. 

“Just bored, I guess,” Chris says, running his hand through his hair and mumbling some sort of apology about how he should have texted first. He looks impeccable, a few days’ stubble on his cheeks, white t-shirt impossibly crisp and new, jeans tight in all the right ways. 

Sebastian resists the urge to cross his arms over his belly. “Nah, it’s fine. And—um, there’s beer in the mini fridge,” he offers, because when things are awkward, beer. 

“I don’t wanna bother you,” Chris says, his eyes roaming up and down Sebastian’s body one more time, just a tiny bit slower. “You look pretty settled in for the night, man.”

“Just hanging out,” Sebastian says, wishing fervently that he wasn’t wearing pajama pants that were digging into his waist and a t-shirt that probably fit better ten pounds ago. “You know how these weekends go. Wear you out.” 

Chris nods. “God, do I know.” He opens his mouth again, but before he can say anything, there’s another knock at the door. 

“Oh, shit, I ordered food,” Sebastian says, suddenly remembering the room service. “Hold on a sec.” 

As soon as he opens the door and sees the rolling cart, it’s beyond obvious that there are two complete meals – with beverages and desserts – being delivered. And Chris is going to see it. There’s no way around it. 

Sebastian clears his throat and makes a weak effort to direct the food onto the little kitchenette counter, but the maid obviously assumes that the meals are for Chris and Sebastian, and she bustles right into the room, depositing one tray on the coffee table in front of Chris and the other where Sebastian had been seated a moment earlier. 

“You two have a nice night,” she says blandly, above Sebastian’s feeble protests. 

“So – sorry about that, man, I haven’t eaten yet,” Sebastian says, and his cheeks are _on fire_. 

Chris looks up at him, eyes wide and earnest. “Is someone coming up? I am so sorry, dude, I’ll get out of your hair”—

“No!” Sebastian swallows, sliding back down onto the couch. “I mean, no. Just me.” 

Chris looks at him a moment, and then his eyes dart from the trays of food, the glasses, the two slices of chocolate cake, and back to Sebastian's face. 

Sebastian sits absolutely still, feeling frozen. There is no plausible explanation for this, and it’s _weird_ , and why the fuck didn’t he take the out when Chris gave it to him? All he would have had to do was agree. _Yup, someone’s coming up. I’m a regular guy who has dinner with people_ , not _Oh, stay and watch me eat dinner for two alone._

“Just you,” Chris says quietly. 

Sebastian nods. 

“After all that pizza you ate today?” 

Sebastian nods again.

Chris is silent for so long that Sebastian realizes he’s holding his breath, waiting. 

“You should eat the burger first,” Chris finally says, sliding the tray toward Sebastian. 

*


	3. Chapter 3

Sebastian polishes off the burger in less than five minutes, taking huge bites, swigging gulps of Coke in between to wash it down. “So how come you decided to come to Chicago?” he asks, as he wolfs down his food. “Or was it a contract thing?”

It would be easy to say something vague about his contract, about Marvel and their demanding press schedules. But then Sebastian flips open the Styrofoam container of piping hot, thick-cut fries and promptly sticks a handful of them in his mouth, and Chris can’t bring himself to lie. 

But he can’t quite handle the truth, either. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. What’s he going to say? _I like watching you eat pizza, and YouTube can’t compare to the real deal?_ Or maybe, _It looked like you’d gained a bunch of weight and I had to confirm it in person?_ And god – he’s definitely confirmed it. Sebastian looks incredibly soft, in the shapeless pajama pants and worn-thin t-shirt.

“I had a really good time in Philly,” Chris says, lamely. 

“Me too,” Sebastian says, looking at him warily. 

“With you,” Chris elaborates. “I had a good time with you, and then…there was the thing. With the pizza, and the cake.” 

“Right,” Sebastian says, hand roaming absently over his belly. He smiles, but he looks a little nervous. “You were right, it’s a hell of a lot better getting pizzas than Quest bars. I’d thank you, but my trainer’s going to kill me, so…” he shrugs. “Did you see any of the pictures this afternoon? Did you think I looked kinda pudgy?”

Chris feels like he’s going to explode. Yes, absolutely, Sebastian had looked totally pudgy, even with his shirt thrown on for camouflage. “You know some fan is probably going to notice you were wearing my shirt and assume we’re dating,” he says, trying to keep his tone light. “That happens whenever we wear something similar.” 

“Probably,” Sebastian says, popping more fries into his mouth. 

“It wasn’t just me, was it?” Chris asks, trying not to sound as desperate as he feels. He’d swear, earlier today, that there had been a current between them, undeniably real and electric. Sebastian, whose face is usually as transparent as glass, emotions drifting across it like clouds across the sun on a clear day, is suddenly inscrutable. 

“No,” he says, finally. “It definitely wasn’t just you.” 

There’s an uncomfortably long silence. Chris looks down at the rest of the food, then back at Sebastian, who’s biting his lower lip. Chris can see a pulse beating in the hollow of his throat. 

“You should have some of the Alfredo,” Chris says, pushing the plate toward him. 

Sebastian looks down at the plate of creamy noodles, then back up at Chris. Their gazes meet, and hold. 

“Aw, fuck it,” Chris says, scrubbing his hands roughly over his face and through his hair, then picking up the plate and a fork and scooting closer to Sebastian on the sofa. “Is this okay? I mean – god, I know, this is so fucking weird, believe me, but - ” 

“No,” Sebastian says quickly, one hand alighting briefly on Chris’s knee. “No, it’s totally not weird. I want you to.” 

Chris exhales like he’s just been punched. “You’re sure?” his voice is almost shaking, he’s so relieved. 

“Yeah,” Sebastian says, hand landing on Chris’s knee again. “C’mon.” 

Chris doesn’t waste any more time trying to explain, he just twirls the fork in the pasta and lifts it up to Sebastian’s lips. 

Sebastian’s mouth quirks up and he leans forward to accept the food, sucking a stray noodle from the fork, then licking a little sauce from his lower lip as he chews, eyes never leaving Chris’s face, flicking from his eyes to his mouth, gauging his responses. 

“Jesus,” Chris breathes on a shaky gust of laughter. He gathers up another forkful, then another, and another. It gets less funny, the more Sebastian eats, and they move closer and closer together until finally Chris just swings a leg across Sebastian’s lap, straddling his thighs. Sebastian tilts his chin up and accepts each bite like a baby bird, not minding if his mouth is already full when Chris taps his lip with the fork, taking whatever he’s given and chewing steadily through all of it. 

Chris gives him a bite of Alfredo, then tips one of the bottles of Coke against his lips, lets him drink and take a short break. 

“You okay?” 

“Sure, yeah,” and then, smiling, “I could do this all day,” which makes them both laugh. 

Chris grabs a handful of fries and feeds them to Sebastian one by one, his fingers brushing Sebastian’s lips. Sebastian’s hands come to rest on his hips, tugging him a little closer, drawing him right up against his full belly, and Chris clamps his legs tight around Sebastian’s, trying not to grind up shamelessly against him, although _god_ does he want to. He tries to keep his eyes on the food, on Sebastian’s face, on what he’s doing, but he can feel the soft, round swell of him right between his legs, and whenever he looks down at it he feels lust like an electric shock from the base of his skull to his dick. 

He shifts, grinding down on Sebastian’s thick thigh, reining himself in. He mutters words of encouragement, something he’s always done during any cooperative effort, although it feels like something completely new and different under the circumstances. “You’re doing great,” he says, and, “Good job, Sebby,” and “One more bite, one more, for me.” 

Finally, he holds up the last French fry. Sebastian leans forward, takes it, and sucks Chris’s fingers into his mouth, running his tongue along them, eyes heavy lidded and hazy. “Is that all?” he asks, a little blearily. 

“Not yet,” Chris says. “You’re not finished, there’s still dessert.” He wishes they _were_ finished, but then he thinks of Sebastian’s already bloated body getting even bigger, even more visibly distended. He thinks of his belly being not just bloated and full, but fatter, a round, heavy shape like this, but softer. His body thrums with excitement. “Gotta have dessert.” 

“It’s too much,” Sebastian says, groaning and rubbing his belly uncomfortably. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” 

“I’ve seen you eat a whole pizza and half a cake without blinking,” Chris says, patting the side of Sebastian’s tightly packed gut. “You know exactly what you were thinking. Now come on, open up.” He cuts the end off one of the pieces of cake with the fork, and holds it up. 

It takes about a half an hour, plus the rest of the Coke and two beers, but Sebastian does it, bite by bite. He finishes the cake. He’s woozy with all the food, a little smear of chocolate at the corner of his pretty, soft mouth, his stomach heaving. It's rounder than Chris has ever seen it, and Sebastian, slumped back against the sofa cushions, chin pillowed on the softness below his jawline, actually looks fat, a preview of what might be, if his trainer didn’t exist, if the nine-picture Marvel contract weren’t a thing. 

His chest and arms are thick with solid muscle, and he’s still a pretty fit guy, but with his belly so full it resembles an honest-to-god beer gut, Chris can see that if he keeps eating like this, he won't be for long. The muscles of his chest and arms are softening just a bit, his shoulders look soft and round, and when Sebastian lets out a burp, his stomach jiggles – not much, but enough that it’s noticeable. Chris knows that he’ll be less bloated tomorrow, but for now? Sebastian looks seriously chubby. 

Chris feels a little lightheaded. He and Sebastian have always liked each other, but they’ve never really spent time together entirely by choice – only by circumstance. They’ve touched each other, hugged, spent hours shooting fight footage that required them to freeze in the middle of a scene, arms wrapped around one another. Once, Sebastian had spent an entire afternoon straddling Chris’s hips and pretending to hit him - but it hadn’t been anything like as intimate as what had just happened. 

He drops the empty plate the instant the last bite disappears into Sebastian’s mouth and leans forward to kiss him, hands cradling the back of his head. “That was so good, baby,” he says, “so perfect. I can’t believe you finished it all.” 

“Neither can I,” Sebastian says, around deep, hot kisses, and he’s breathless, both with fullness and from kissing. “Jesus, that was a lot of food. Gotta get horizontal.” 

“Then let’s get you horizontal,” Chris says. 

*

Sebastian flops back onto the bed with a sigh of relief, both hands going to his overstuffed gut, then sliding down to the waistband of his pants, shoving it down toward his hips so Chris can see the upward curve of his belly, and the little trail of hair running from his navel downward.

“You look amazing,” Chris says, crawling onto the bed and kneeling beside him, his hands joining Sebastian’s, rubbing over the swell of his tummy, which still feels a little soft, despite how full he is. His nipples harden as Chris’s hand brushes past them; they’re visible through the thin fabric of his shirt. 

“I look fucking fat,” Sebastian says, chin doubling as he looks down at himself. 

“Yeah you do,” Chris agrees. His hands slide down Sebastian’s torso and come to rest on the tightly-packed dome of his gut, then he begins to knead wide circles across the too-tight t-shirt, feeling how incredibly full he is, how he's struggling a little for breath, his belly jerking up and down as he breathes. He lets one hand trail along the tantalizing lower part of his gut, where it’s softest. He squeezes, dips his thumb into Sebastian’s navel, then leans forward and kisses the soft flesh under Sebastian’s jaw. “You’re actually _getting_ kind of fat, not just looking like it." 

“I know,” Sebastian says. “Look at this.” He frames his gut in both hands and gives it a gentle shake. 

“I don’t know if you’re going to be able to work all this off,” Chris adds, shaking his head. “Not in time for shooting. They’ll probably have to write something into the script about how Bucky’s been awake for a while and eating his body weight in pizza, like the way they had the set designers leave candy bars and chips all over the place in Civil War.” 

“They said two hundred pounds,” Sebastian says, defensively. 

“You were more than that,” Chris says. He’s more or less on top of Sebastian, carefully avoiding his too-full stomach, but leaning over his chest. They’re face-to-face, on a bed, and Chris had just fed Sebastian two entire room service dinners, with dessert. 

And Sebastian had eaten it, all of it, because Chris had wanted him to. 

It’s a heady thought. “Feel better?” he asks, trying not to stare too openly at the tantalizing shape of Sebastian’s tummy. 

“Yeah, always best if I can lie down for a little while,” Sebastian says, folding one arm back behind his head and letting Chris touch him, pushing up into his hand from time to time. 

_Always best._ “You’ve been doing this a lot?” 

“Well, not _a lot,_ ” Sebastian says. “But I guess…” his eyes go unfocused while he thinks about it. “Okay, yeah, a lot. Since Philly.”

“What’s it feel like?” 

“Feels like I ate too much,” Sebastian says. “Feels like someone just sat on me and fed me two whole meals and two whole desserts after I ate pizza all day.” 

“Looks like that, too,” Chris says. 

“Makes me feel good, too, in a way, being so full. And,” he adds, shifting under Chris’s hand, “this is probably weird? But it gets me kind of hot, too. Like, when I sent you that picture from Tulsa?” 

Oh, god. That picture. “Yeah?” Chris asks hoarsely. 

“This is so embarrassing,” Sebastian says, seeming totally unembarrassed. “Right after I sent that to you, I jerked off harder than I have since I was thirteen, man. Can’t explain it, but there it is. I guess that’s probably weird.” 

“Food and sex are always kind of mixed up together like that,” Chris says. “It’s totally normal.” 

*

_It’s totally normal_. Sebastian rolls that sentence around in his head a moment, considering it. He’s not so sure it is. He had, sort of, tried this out with a girl before. Not exactly like this – he hadn’t asked her to grind on his dick while she fed him until he couldn’t breathe – but he’d eaten a little too much a few times, whined about it and pointed out how full he was, how his belly was pooched out. He’d been so weirdly, painfully turned on, and so goddamn hopeful, but she’d just laughed, said something about how she wasn’t getting laid that night, and flipped on the TV. 

It had been deeply unsatisfying. It had also, probably, been _totally normal_ , unlike this thing currently happening between him and Chris. 

Sebastian shifts, groaning just a little at the feel of all the food and Coke and beer sloshing around in his poor, distended belly. Chris, bless him, promptly resumes rubbing his belly, looking torn between concern and lust. He looks _pretty_ , pink lips and blue eyes and chiseled jaw, absolutely earnest expression. Captain goddamn America. 

“Food and sex get mixed up for you, too?” Sebastian asks. He knows the answer – the answer had been poking him in the belly the whole time Chris was straddling him – but he wants to hear Chris articulate it. 

Chris nods, running his hand low, over the bottom curve of Sebastian’s belly, slipping his fingers just barely, barely beneath the elastic of his pajama pants. It sends sparks up Sebastian’s spine, makes his whole body tingle and his breath catch. “Yeah. Fuck, Seb – you don’t know what it was like for me, in Philly. Watching you – god, watching you eat all that pizza, and the cake, and – shit, you just looked really good, and…” he trails off, looking down at his hands on Sebastian’s belly. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About whether or not it was gonna show, if you were gonna keep it up. Get chubby.”

Somehow just the words – the _word_ , chubby, Chris calling him chubby – is enough to make Sebastian squirm a little, and he knows his hard-on has to be beyond obvious in his sweats. 

“You couldn’t stop thinking about it and I couldn’t stop eating,” Sebastian says, even though the words make his cheeks heat up a little. He doesn’t care; it feels so fucking good to be able to say it out loud, to have another person know exactly what the fuck is going on with him. 

“Oh, _god_ ,” Chris mumbles, like it’s the dirtiest thing anyone could say to him. “Shit, Seb – it shows, and you look so fucking good, look at you.”

Sebastian pulls himself up a little bit higher, peering down at his tummy in Chris’s big hands. It seems stupid, the way his t-shirt is still between them, and he reaches down and moves Chris’s hands out of the way so he can tug it up. 

“Take it off,” Chris says, taking it upon himself to help. It’s kind of painful, even just sitting up enough to get his shirt off, and Sebastian flops back down the moment Chris gets the t-shirt over his shoulders. “You look so good, Sebby. Big—bigger than you were in Tulsa when you sent that picture.”

“Did you jerk off to it?” Sebastian blurts, because he wants to know. 

Chris nods, holding Sebastian’s gaze. “Yes. Fuck, yes. Drove me crazy.” He leans forward, hovering so carefully over Sebastian’s gut, and kisses him again, slower this time, hot and filthy. 

“I thought about you,” Sebastian says, lips moving against Chris’s mouth, panting a little. “Every time I ate like that after Philly. Every time.”

Chris doesn’t reply, but his hips snap forward, like an involuntary reaction, and Sebastian can feel his dick pressing against his belly. 

“You could fuck me, if you wanted,” Sebastian whispers. “You could.”

*

Chris is pretty sure he could drill diamonds with his dick, and a part of him wants to pin Sebastian to the mattress and just wreck him, rough and fast, show him exactly what it does to Chris, seeing him like this. 

But another part of him – the larger part – feels protective, gentle, like Sebastian needs to be taken care of. He _looks_ like he needs to be taken care of, panting a little, his belly distended almost comically, and Sebastian’s hand keeps skating over it, gentle little touches like it’s all he can stand. He looks fat, gut solid and bloated, but he also looks weirdly fragile, almost delicate, like he should be handled with care. 

“Roll over. On your knees, baby,” Chris says, and it almost shorts out his brain, watching Sebastian drag himself up into a sit and do what he’s told. Chris can’t resist helping, gently rolling him over till he’s on all fours. 

“You look so good,” he whispers, draping himself over Sebastian’s back, kissing his neck, one hand cupping his full tummy, holding it protectively. “Gonna open you up for me.”

Sebastian shudders, moaning a little and pushing his ass back, a wanton, slutty little motion that takes Chris’s breath away. “Please,” he mumbles, sounding small, and Chris thinks his heart might pound out of his chest. 

It’s messy, not particularly skillful, when he stretches Sebastian open. There’s too much lube, they’re going to ruin the sheets, and Jesus, Chris wants to be gentle but Sebastian keeps rocking back against him, needy and demanding, and by the time he’s worked the second finger in, Sebastian is moaning, soft little sighs every time Chris pushes his fingers into him. 

“Chris,” Sebastian whimpers. 

“Shh, I got you,” Chris says, mumbling comforting nonsense as he slides on a condom and lines up. “Here, baby, here.” 

He eases in gently, slow and careful, and Sebastian still gasps like it hurts, like he’s being split apart, freezing absolutely still. 

“You okay? Feel okay?” Chris’s dick is halfway inside, and he thinks he might die if he can’t shove the rest of the way home, bury himself balls deep, but he doesn’t move.

Sebastian chokes out a strangled little laugh. “Feel so full, I can’t breathe. Full everywhere, _god_ , so much. Do it – fuck me.”

That’s all the affirmation Chris needs, and he slides forward another inch, another, and when he’s finally, _finally_ fully inside, he reaches around and cradles Sebastian’s tummy before he moves. 

“You feel so good,” he mumbles, because it’s true and because it’s all he can think, lost in wave after wave of overwhelming sensation. The feel of Sebastian’s body, warm and tight around him, the feel of his swollen gut, tight like a drum but sweetly, tellingly soft at the bottom, where Sebastian isn’t just full but is starting to get really, truly pudgy, just a little, and it’s almost too much, too many things to feel at once. 

“Chris, Chris, Chris,” Sebastian chants, incoherent and pushing back against him again, back arching like his tummy’s pulling him down, breath coming in fast little puffs. 

“Touch your cock,” Chris says, partly because he just wants Sebastian to do it and partly because he can’t last, he can’t, his spine is already buzzing with that white hot electric thrum of an impending orgasm. He wants to be gentle, god, he does, because Sebastian is _delicate,_ stuffed so full right now, vulnerable for him, but god, he can’t help it, his hips jerking forward hard and fast, no matter how much he tries to be careful.

“Come for me, Sebby, you’ve been so good for me, so fucking good, I want you to come, come now—“ Chris usually isn’t quite this vocal, but he can’t help it, mouth running helplessly, and Sebastian responds to it beautifully, breathing harder, moaning under him, and _Jesus_ , when he comes he tightens around Chris’s cock until it’s almost painful, and it pushes Chris over, too, until his vision grays out and he can’t feel anything except the full-body explosion of orgasm. 

*

Sebastian feels almost shy, after. He’s had a lot of sex – some of it mind-blowingly good – but it’s never been like this, this intimate and intense, like having all of his most carefully guarded secrets laid bare for another person. 

He opens his mouth a couple times, wants to say something, but he can’t seem to find any words, and finally he just rolls over onto his side, his back to Chris, and scoots back until they’re flush against each other. Chris doesn’t say a word, but he drapes his arm over Sebastian’s middle, palm coming to rest on the curve of his underbelly like it belongs there. It feels good, like Chris is holding him together, somehow, and he drifts for awhile, not quite asleep but not quite awake. 

“I should go back to my room,” Chris finally says, when it’s well past midnight. “Can’t stay here all night.”

Sebastian shrugs, squirming in Chris’s arms until they’re facing each other on the mattress, Sebastian’s bloated little tummy flush against Chris’s abs. “Set an alarm. Leave at, like, five.”

Chris nods, blue eyes intense and searching, moving over Sebastian’s face.

“I can’t keep doing this,” Sebastian says conversationally, pushing his hand in between Chris’s belly and his own, relishing the way Chris feels muscled and he feels round.

Chris shakes his head, face serious even though his lip is quirked up, just a tiny bit. “Nope. You’re gonna be too chubby when you show up on set as it is.” 

“I should stop.”

“You should.”

“Probably soon.”

“Yeah.”

“Tomorrow. That’ll be the last day.”

Chris smiles full-on. “Great, I can watch you stuff yourself senseless all day and have to act like it’s totally normal.”

Sebastian looks at him, bites his lip. “I don’t fly out till Monday.”

“I’ll change my flight.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, Chubby Subby Seb appears thanks to [whowaswillbe](http://www.whowaswillbe.tumblr.com) (AKA [greyskygirl](http://archiveofourown.org/users/greyskygirl)), who is a genius for coining the term and bringing this magnificence into all our lives.
> 
> The Dumpster Home For Wayward Orphans is (almost) always open, come visit it on Tumblr at [missjanedoeeyes](http://www.missjanedoeeyes.tumblr.com) and [delightfulexcess](http://d-lightfulexcess.tumblr.com). And hey! If you happen to meet Sebastian and give him pizza...let us know how that goes. For fic research purposes, of course.


End file.
